Crafted Doors
by AnonM1ss
Summary: È hoíe: "Or like she who…"  The story spins again. AU-Sarah, princess of New Normandy, is unconcerned with inheritances, power and etiquette. She whittles her time on rapscallion adventures until she meets her match: a trickster king for a trickster girl.


**Crafted Doors**

_**Part I. The Knots of the Labyrinth**_

"One touch of nature makes the whole world kin."

-William Shakespeare  
"Our most bitter enemies are our own kith and kin. Kings have no brothers, no sons, no mother!"

-Honore de Balzac

_Chapter 1: Kin_

Tony was supposed to be in the corridor on the left, and he wasn't. Sarah pondered the reasons for his absence, and could only think of the thrill of sneaking around, not about the possible repercussions that could befall her upon discovery. The concept of paying for her actions had not been droned into her young mind yet, and she had little stomach for remorse and absolutely no mind for ramifications. She pulled up her skirts and petticoat absentmindedly to pick at a scab on her knee, swallowing a lusty sigh as she sat on the stone steps and waited for her partner in crime to make an appearance. Soon, the sound of steps grew louder and Sarah was on her feet again, energy vibrating through her limbs, her mouth open to call out the delay. A commotion announced itself before the body did and Sarah saw her younger brother collide headfirst with a suit of armor before messily turning the corner.

"Tobias!" she hissed, her green eyes snapping in sheer irritation, "If you don't turn around this instant, Father will hear of this, you be certain of this! He'll—"

Prince Tobias' face screwed up in outrage, his red mouth open in a puerile scowl, "No he isn't! If you do, I'll tell him I found you here first. That'll raise questions! Also," he added smugly, "I'll make him check your knees from the rag screen races you've been running with the scullery maids!"

Sarah suddenly crossed her arms across her chest, her young face smug, promising retribution, "Well, I'll tell Sir Galilei that you've been skiving your Chemist tutorials _and_ tell Tony that you were the one who took his favorite 'kerchief. He'll pay you back by putting crawlers in your bed _every night_ until I tell him to stop!"

Tobias was furious, if his further entanglement with the suit of arms was any sign of the temper tantrum to follow. He was _sick_ of being heir to New Normandy! Why did Sarah get to have all the fun? He had to sit and learn his lessons all day, and _it_ _just wasn't fair_! "I'll make you sorry, just you wait. I wish that the goblins would—"

All signs of smug victory drained from Sarah's lips and she started harshly, "Toby, _you mustn't_!"

Her younger brother stopped promptly, chastised as it were by the sheer dread on her dirty features and the faintness in her breath. The moment drew out tensely before Sarah sighed and reached over, the metal clanking dully as the two siblings worked to get Tobias out of the suited mess.

Toby swallowed before he apologized, "Sarah, I—I'm sorry!"

Sarah's body grew tense before she turned on him, hissing, "Damn right you'll be! You may be next in line, but it doesn't matter! The King _exists_, and some words mustn't be spoken! _Ever_!"

Toby had nothing to add to this, and worked busily on freeing his legs, his head bent with mock concentration. The light reflected wanly off the metal guards, the high window offering the only relief in the shaded room. The air had a bit of a bite to it, carrying both the last fingerlings of winter and the hints of spring. It was unexpected then that both siblings could hear the approaching steps before they could see them. Tony cut a dashing figure across the stone steps, his silk kerchief tied jauntily around his upper arm as he slunk across the corner and grinned at the two children on the floor.

"Why, your highness, and… milady!"

Sarah, still tense and irritated from the close call turned on Tony with the fierce eyes of an alley cat, spitting, "Just what do you think you're doing, making me wait?"

Tony shrugged, his grey eyes slanted as he slid his eyes over Tobias on the floor, and then raised them to take in her disheveled appearance appraisingly, "Princess you may be, but certain ladies of the court have higher calling, if one reckons my age and… station."

Sarah automatically let her knotted hair slide over her face in the pretense of freeing Toby from the last of the skirted shingles, her fingers clenching over the chainmail. She knew that Tony was clever enough so she couldn't talk back to him; after all, it wasn't his fault that his mother had deemed it necessary to seek love outside of lorded matrimony, but the comment had been double-edged. As of late, his eyes kept wandering to the ladies of the court, the look on his face curious and impatient. His appearance in her escapades became markedly diminished, as well. The timing could not be merely coincidental. Sarah knew she was losing her favorite friend's affections, and she didn't know whether to be offended or pleased. By calling her princess, he reminded her yet again of the boundaries that were to come sooner than either of them would like to admit, and Sarah knew that his actions were the right thing to do. She couldn't, however, ignore the way his eyes appraised and then dismissed her. What cut to the quick wasn't his acknowledgment that she was princess—it was the unspoken implication that despite the title, he could not find anything worthy enough to keep the bond that she had come to cherish so deeply. Sarah was not stupid. She knew that Antonio Escudo d'Antilles was a full two years older than she was, and that the bonds he wished for were of a different nature than what a young girl her age looked to. So, their friendship was promptly dismissed, and she was left gathering the dregs to herself, _again_.

She was startled when another set of hands helped her mount the suit of armor, the tan fingers brushing over hers swiftly as they set the wrongs to right again. She blushed thickly, snatching her hands back before rubbing them down the sides of her dress. Pretending she hadn't noticed anything, she then turned to Tobias, surprised to see he was on his feet again, his eyes solemn, thumb in mouth. She chided him softly before pulling the finger out of his mouth and straightening his collar and knotted braid. She could feel Tony's eyes on her shoulders and the air suddenly grew salty and hot at the same time.

She let the curtain of dark hair hang over her features again before she heard him sigh, "Until tomorrow, _carina_. Be sure to stay out of trouble now that the preparations for Beltane are underway." She tensed when she felt those fine fingers thread through the hair around her ears, looking down to see Toby's eyes grow impossibly wide, "Then again, your shenanigans may keep you in the shadows and away from prying eyes. It'll also keep you impossible to manage and tame, all the better, for the Fae are known to choose young child-brides in this season."

Sarah shuddered before she slapped the hand away, "Be sure to keep to watch yourself! Be sure not to accept as many hawthorne knots as promises you aren't capable of keeping!"

The hurt look in Tony's eyes made her feel a tinge of guilt, but she kept her chin high in defiance, her arms rigid around Toby's shoulders as she stood her ground.

Unaware of the picture she made with the wan light filtering overhead, she felt it peculiar that Tony would stop and bow deeply, his voice suddenly deep and unrecognizable as he took his leave, "Very well, my lady… as you wish it."

The stillness after Tony left seemed to swallow both Toby and Sarah, and unwittingly both of their shoulders slumped forward. Feeling his eyes on her face, Sarah snapped, "Is there something on my face that bears reckoning?"

Toby startled forward before he shook his head, and then his older sister sighed before grabbing his hand and taking him down to the kitchens for another of Janey's hot toddies.

Magical forests had a greater depth to their foliage. Only the dusk in New Normandy's trees made it appear even remotely akin to the lush dearth that the Goblin King had left behind him. Amidst such thoughts, Jareth wondered not for the last time if it would be considered cheating for him to nix the rest of the land-bound trip for flight. He considered himself beyond the striving of mortals, but that did not excuse his interactions with them for political gain. Deigning to meet one after a ride on horseback instead of crystal transport would be an appropriate gesture, a sign that he wished to genuinely reach out to his human neighbors. All things considered, if he were to fly the rest of the way and magically appear on the windowsill of His Majesty's private chambers, the disgruntlement would be tantamount to, if not greater than if he were to appear in the scrying room with a telltale cloud of crystal dust. The discussions depended on making a favorable impression; Jareth wasn't going to leave without what he wanted. What Jareth wanted very seldom differed from what the Labyrinth wanted, and it was wont, from time to time to voice its desires very clearly. Time sieved sinuously in the Goblin Kingdom, and Jareth grew used to the passing of time to adjust to the myriad changes that immortality brought. As a result, he watched the human proceedings with a glimmer of a leer and oftentimes the imprint such mortals left on his mind were even more fleeting than the glimpse he would afford them.

Most mortals, unaware that the time that flowed through their veins left merely the impression of life that left as soon as it emerged, exhausted flickering lives, squandered with the greed of a moment. As humans went, Robert Anton Wilhelm was decently intriguing. In the height of his powers, the man had discovered not only a chain of iron mines, but a vein of Sopphis crystal ones as well. While most of the Sídhe did not need any material object to channel their natural magic, most found that scrying through Sopphis crystal clarified all the potentials within omens, and thus made a precious commodity. As it was material that was found only in the Underground out of all three portals, Jareth was certain that Robert, as anti-magic a human stance ever was, was unaware of the benefits such raw materials held. He fully intended to capitalize on that human ignorance, but he knew he would have to tread carefully. King Robert was by no means a dullard, and his first wife, if rumors told were true, was a fierce _prismason_, one of the only ruling ones left in the Underground. Although she had fled with the lily-livered cousin, Roderick was still a staunch Lord Mason, one of the only ones left standing to New Normandy. Belinda did not do so badly to replace a Lord Mason to warm her bed after her first husband. The one mistake the runaway Queen had made in Jareth's opinion was to leave her daughter behind. If the daughter had inherited magical arteries of _prismason_ magic, the mother could potentially lose a powerful ally, unless the jealousy and fear of upheaval was the main motivator for abandonment. He snorted at the thought, scorning human insecurities in the face of unyielding Sídhe experience. To squander such potential for selfish anxieties in the face of everchanging politics was ruthlessly foolish, especially with mortal blood so ripe for the bearing. The Fae would not hold Belinda at fault if she had kidnapped the girl with her, taking her off east to Magical Tuscany and then bartering her off to a Sídhe or Jinn lord once she had shed her first blood. Jareth was equally certain that such cutthroat pragmaticism would curdle the throats of the human bards and still the twitters of the mortal court. Ah well, it was their loss.

Lost in his train of thought, Jareth's stallion rode through the dusk steadily. The cadence lulled Jareth from thoughts of politics to the sumptuous redhead he had left in his bed this morning. Suddenly furious, Jareth snarled at the thought that he let human affairs go to his head and turned his thoughts to his lovely partner of the moment, Niamh and her twining curls. She would be waiting for him in the same spot—and hopefully, the same position—once he got what he came for, to appease the Labyrinth.

The hot toddy had put Sarah at odds with herself, it seemed. As the moon traversed the width of her windowsill, she tossed and turned restlessly, hair damp and sticking to the nape of her neck. She drifted in and out of sleep, the hazy narrative dipping from the familiar sight of flashing brown eyes and tan hands to the heated exchange of their bodies meeting to do… something. She knew not what, but she knew that her body yearned for a promise of whatever Tony's eyes seemed to search for, and she also knew in her heart that it could never be. So toss and turn she did in her silken sheets, unaware that her dreams and memories became less coherent, the weave that sleep spun on her changed the color of those eyes. Those hands would change in sheen throughout the night; the unexpected play of moonlight seemed to paint pallor into those well-known fingers. All she would remember the next morning were tinges of a slightly embarrassed flush on her cheeks, and thighs sore as if from sudden clenching, the way they were the first week she went horseback riding, or from the mock fencing lessons she'd wheedle from the petty infantry. Ah well, nothing to lose sleep over. If she wouldn't move fast enough, Artemisia would deny her the first choice of brushes.

Robert willed the thundering headache to go away. Sadly, making petty wishes come true wasn't within his jurisdiction. Restraining the desire to curl his lip, he sank deeper into his seat, nursing a cup of bitter, deep wine as he heard the numerous complaints raised by the Sídhe court. He had vowed never to expose this side of the Underground to his children, if possible, and had gone through the motions of slowly severing ties with the Fae lords, but a part of him knew this was wishful thinking at best, and delusional attempts at worst. Of all the fluttering Sídhe figurines gracing the Underground, the most substantial and the least _effulgent_ was the current Goblin King, Jareth. Jareth was also the present _sluagh_ s_ídhe_ appointed by the Fae Court, and had been so for quite some time. This was a strategic bid, as the Goblin Kingdom had always been situated not only between the two other portals—Aboveground and Limbus—it also served as the greatest connection point between magical beings and human mortals. While being the Fae Host for the High Court was traditionally a high honor, times had accommodated that title to appease those who the Fae behind closed doors had sneered at as 'lesser forms'. This made Robert wonder if the honor was really a backhanded reprimand or insult. Either way, Jareth had always been scrupulously polite upfront if not unscrupulously mercenary behind the scenes, both magical and non-magical. This made him a formidable foe and an admirable politician, in one.

Robert kept his fingers clenched around the goblet for fear that he would give into his tendency and pinch his temples when aggravated. He thought he had rid himself of all these magical nuances since Belinda had left, but ever since the iron miners had come across a streak of embedded hanging crystals, there had been no shortage of magical intervention. On top of the pressure he had riding down his back to cease the iron mines, Robert now had this contention to pull onto the pile. It wasn't as if the iron mines were a choice—Magical Tuscany and Mortal Sardinia appeared to be in cahoots with each other—there were hushed whispers, appalled recounting of the creation of a form of metal arms that was… _magically induced_. Robert would not let this slide. If Tuscany and Sardinia were working together, they would ruthlessly undo all the careful chartering Father Charlemagne had come up with, so many centuries ago.

He covertly looked at Jareth, appraising the Fae lord through darkened lashes, considering his options. Although the merest mention of magic put his teeth on edge, Robert would sacrifice a moment's peace if it would bring him a powerful ally. If this would not save himself, he would at least pay for his errors and Belinda through political treatise. He owed that much to his wife Karina and their heir, Tobias. Ignoring the pull in his gut—the one that told him he was neglecting his favorite child—Robert vowed that his past would not get the best of his present. He assuaged his conscience by promising himself that he would give Artemisia one of the West wing's chambers to mount a _camera obscura_ where she could take the child for new art lessons.

Artemisia looked at the girl before her with exasperation. She had not worked her way up the artist's guilds to tutor this brat-child before her. Watching the sullen upper lip make an appearance, the artist felt the sudden desire to throttle the princess' delicate neck. The technique! It was all wrong! She moved over swiftly to correct the girl when she noticed that she wasn't applying a foreground of deep sky through a window-slit, but rather the chiaroscuro dancing amidst crystal and candlelight. She furrowed her brow in consideration, tilting her head to the side as she watched Sarah paint in intense concentration. After ten minutes of assessment and silent work, Artemisia let out a sigh and the feelings that colored the lens she observed the girl through changed to warmer hues. Although the girl was ignorant of it, the King never left her without the best of provisions, and it was clear that although he feared Belinda's influence, he deeply loved his firstborn. The natural affection young Tobias held for Sarah was also telling—the elder child had a strong passionate nature, which the charismatic heir pulled towards, almost helplessly. Karina watched with a careful eye, aware that Sarah was _unaware_ of setting an example, yet Artemisia had heard whisperings of how Karina would send for the finest silks from the Han Orient, and would choose the most delicate of baubles by hand for her stepdaughter. These were removed, yet undeniable signs of a cool regard if not the budding of affection. Headstrong Sarah, or _Sorcha_, as she adamantly called herself, knew not how much laughter and warmth her kindling spirit brought to the halls. Her renditions of court classics and her impeccable nose for rapscallion ventures were the talk of the court, if not the opener for dinner-table conversations. She was certain the only thing to top such idle chatter would be the day Robert would give her hand in marriage to some lord or princeling in a neighboring kingdom. The frown returned to groove her brow slightly. This was another puzzle—Sarah had breached her first blood-moon three years ago, and Tobias was already in his eighth year—there was no prudent reason to delay Sarah's betrothal. If one were to look at the situation with the exacting eye of a removed politician, Sarah would already have been trussed up, complete with dowry trunks, and carted off to Old Sardinia before that boy Tony, the bastard lord of Antilles, had ever begun to sniff around her skirts. While Robert was an adept politician—for a man, and a mortal one, at that—Artemisia would be the first to admit that when it came to the Princess Sarah Aislinn, the King was unfathomable and unpredictable.

A clarion bell rung through the corridors and interrupted the quiet spell that the two women shared. Sarah rolled her neck around her shoulders and bit back a sigh as the heavy braid snagged at her scalp, wishing intensely that she could convince Karina to give her a page's cut and do away with the locks altogether. Before a scowl could emerge on Sarah's petal-hued face at the thought of Karina, a lady-in-waiting entered the fashionable artist's salon to curtsey and stammer, "Milady's lessons in High Greek and Aramaic await in the Eastern Wing."

Dutifully gathering her art materials, Sarah stood up, only to look down at the canvas stretched before her. She blinked, surprised, and noted the sharp breath drawn behind her. Artemisia was peering over her shoulder, her surprise a duplicate etching of Sarah's cast over her strong features as she took in the pallor of the hand reaching through the darkness. It appeared that the hand reached forward, but for the crystal or the candle? Artemisia's voice came across rough, uneven, "I had thought that you were drawing the deep night through the window, and yet... I wonder of your use of chiaroscuro here, my lady."

Sarah winced, awaiting the rebuke that was certain to land. The kingdom's only female artist, an exile from Mortal Sardinia, was as infamous for her sharp tongue as she was for the depth and drama of her paintings. Sarah opened one eye tentatively when the storm of words failed to land. Artemisia was still pondering the canvas, unaware of the lady-in-waiting who was fluttering impatiently near the chaises, "This is interesting, indeed. The play of light and shadow makes it difficult to see if the owner of the hand is reaching for the crystal or retreating from the candlelight." The eyes under the strong brow grew sharp, "What, may I ask, is the inspiration for this sudden change in composition?"

Sarah stammered, "I hardly own knowledge of it myself, Lady Artemisia. The sudden impulse overtook me, almost like a dream."

The shrewd eyes held her gaze, but released the canvas, "Very well. I find you much improved. We will talk more of this the next time we meet."

Sarah nodded, suddenly eager to leave the salon; the haste with which she removed herself was remarkable, and she found herself eager for her language lessons, for the first time!

It was clear by the way the candles ran to the bottom of the wick, that her father had kept his visitors indoors for most of the pending day. Sarah had not intended to dally by the meeting room, but she could smell the intoxicating fumes of cigar smoke, and the lingering bittersweet scent of coffee, and she remained. The scents of adulthood beckoned to her, and more often than not, Karina's daily interaction with her stepdaughter was to shoo her away from Robert's high meetings, chiding at her for the unseemliness of the King's eldest child—and an unmarried daughter, at that—lingering around the folds of men folk, looking for all purposes like a wayward changeling. Moments like these would stir Sarah to pique, and she would roll her eyes in an utmost plebian fashion, which would drive her stepmother spare. Sarah was indulging in one of those moments when she saw all the candles in the light go out. She stilled instantly, the hairs on her arms and neck prickling, as the urge to hide grew paramount. She dove sinuously into the fur robes by the closets, hoping the musky scent of game would mask hers. She knew that her father held council with the Sídhe lord of the Goblin Kingdom today. She continued to watch, her dark curls meshing seamlessly with the thick fur and her eyes drawn back past the collar. Nothing moved to correct the erasure of light. In fact, the very air stilled around the room and the sound of a definite chair scraping against the wooden floor and carpet made Sarah settle deeper into the coats as her heart went racing. Her heart was beating in her ears by the time she could hear those steps approach her, steps that were deep yet measured. She could imagine that a well-built and tall man would own those steps. She feared the man who owned those steps was the same who owned those wished away children…

"Ah, what have we here?"

The hangars gave a sharp rasp as two gloved hands forcefully partitioned the fur coats and revealed Sarah who, in all of her ridiculous glory, resembled a large coat with skinny legs and green eyes. From what she could gather inside the collar, she could see a flash of sharp white teeth pulled into an amused expression and pale, pale hands reaching for her—

"_If _you please," intoned Sarah haughtily before throwing the fur coat off her body and onto the floor, "It would be nice if you wouldn't forget yourself and your manners."

"Silly me," was the smooth response, "Where do you suppose they've been left behind."

Sarah's eyes narrowed dangerously. It was clear that he was treating her like a pup barely beyond weaning. For a Fae lord, this was the objective truth, but for Sarah's long-lived sixteen years, her experience could also not be a lie. She refused to be the chew-bone to any fairy king. She snorted, tossing her head, "Why, in the very same room where you left Papa and his diplomats."

The same sensation of air freezing, and time _crystallizing_ settled around Sarah. The tall Goblin King stepped even closer. By now, the two of them were nestled in the large coat rack, the closet of furs bearing down on them. Those elfin eyes were mismatched, and Sarah almost missed a breath. She had never seen anything—or anyone—so fascinating. Not even Janey's midnight scrying tales could compare to this… man's presence.

The man's face was as smooth and pale as milk, but it was cut with charcoal lines and the jagged edges of broken mirrors, "The King is father to one such as you?"

Sarah took another step behind, duly noting that her back was now pressed against the wall. Her eyebrows slammed down and she opened her mouth to declare her status when she recalled something. Given names were dangerous in the land of magical beings. This was something her father had never deigned to tell her, arrogant in his certainty that _his_ heirs would never have anything to do with wild magic. What Sarah never deigned to let him know in response was that she wouldn't need the ignorance when she had intuition in spades. This intuition told her to play ignorant. She lowered her full lashes and fiddled with her sleeve, a quick study in abashed maidenhood, "Kind sir, you act too familiar and thus take liberties with me. Toy if you will, but I do not even know your name."

He leaned forward, silvery hair tickling her cheek as he drawled into her ear, "Faked innocence does not become a scavenger such as yourself." Against the spluttered noises of indignation, he stepped back and gave as graceful a bow as one could within the restraints of a royal coatroom, "I am Jareth, King of the Goblins and Guardian of the Labyrinth. Anointned _Sluagh_ S_ídhe _of the Fae High Court. I assume I am speaking with Robert's firstborn, Princess…?"

Green eyes flashed uncertainly, "Sorcha. Princess Sorcha."

The laughter in Jareth's face spelled delight, "Stories spun within stories! How I do delight in challenges!"

Sarah knew that such laughter meant the opposite for her side, so she wildly flayed her arms, hoping to hit him over and make a run, but iron arms clamped around hers and the deep laughter still wracking his spine reverberated down to the tips of her toes, "While the heir was intended, I find you convenient. You will sow the fruits for young Tobias, and I will come to collect!"

_No_, Sarah thought wildly, _No! _

Jareth continued along this vein as the coatroom began to _glimmer_, "I personally find meetings of such official capacity a bore. In fact, they do induce a rather _soporific_ effect."

Sarah could feel the sleep clawing at the edge of her eyes, and she fought against it as hard as she could, and succeeded only with batting at Jareth's chest with a limp hand, "You, s'not… fair… play."

Jareth's voice smothered with the spinning lights, echoing through her mind as she stumbled into sleep, "No, I reckon that it isn't fair, at all."

Definitions (Of Sorts):

_Sídhe_: Fae folk, literally in Irish "people of the mounds".

_sluagh_ s_ídhe: _fairy host

_Sorcha_: the youngest of the cursed family in the Grimm stories who has to recover her brothers through magically and self-inflicted ordeals. The name means 'radiant' and is conveniently deemed an Irish version of 'Sarah'.

_Prismasonry_: I created this term to accommodate some of the values of Freemasonry with the idea of wild magic, a human appropriation of the natural magic of the Sídhe or the Labyrinth, only that this form of magic is chained to a craft and channeled through an artifact of choice.

Author's Note:

This is an AU story that will entail Aboveground, the Underworld and possibly a Dante-esque Limbo for reject characters. Just kidding… maybe? It's easily traced through its names, Neo Normandy as a spin on early feudal England, the kingdoms of Magical Tuscany and Mortal Sardinia also fabricated political lines. Take note that this is a dreadfully anachronistic (and therefore deeply postmodern) piece with no timeline that bears anymore than a hint of similarity with ours. That means that medieval meshes with 18th century (yes, camera obscura, anyone?) and Part II, already in the works, will have a predominantly Steam Punk/French Boudoir feel to it to counter the Dutch Masters/Celtic Lore feeling predominant in Part I.

Yes, also plenty of historical and literary references. This tale will draw inspiration loosely from the Brothers Grimm story of _The Seven Ravens_ and/or _The Six Swans_. I name-dropped Galileo Galilei as Toby and Sarah's science tutor, as well as Artemisia Gentileschi as the art instructor. Charlemagne, well is THE Charlemagne.


End file.
